Storm
by Sweetamyleigh
Summary: Begins the night Peter and Assumpta guard the Killnashee Wood construction site in Changing Times.
1. Chapter 1

Storm

Pt. 1

"Are you cold?"  
"Yeah—no."  
"You feel cold."

Peter had gripped Assumpta's hand so tightly as they sat in his tiny,  
freezing car that he could still feel it an hour later as he lay  
soaking in the warm bath. He had been morosely reviewing the events  
of earlier that evening, as he and Assumpta "guarded" Brian Quigley's  
construction site in the Killnashee wood while their friends dashed  
home for warmer clothes. The bath was the one place he could go for a  
think, without the constant interruption by parishioners wanting the  
curate's ear "just for a moment, Father." For that brief time, he  
would allow himself to concentrate on his own problems, those to which  
he could give no time during his public life.

Tonight, as on many previous nights lately, Peter's meditation  
centered on the Möbius strip of his relationship with Assumpta: no  
matter how he worked it,there were no two sides. His feelings of  
friendship and love were permanently intertwined, turning over on each  
other into infinity. Still, he had determined to keep his struggle an  
internal one until tonight. Assumpta had been so close, and at last  
he could not help himself. He had to touch her, even if only her  
hand, even if only for a moment.

The soap slipped from its dish and landed with a splash at Peter's  
feet. He watched the ripples it made and he sighed, feeling again the  
hopelessness at letting his resolve slip, confusing things, confusing  
him, mucking up his most precious possession—-Assumpta in his life.  
It had been all over her face as she got in her van to leave.  
Peter had gestured helplessly at the departing vehicle, as if  
attempting to erase his actions and put things right again.

A flash of lightning through his tiny bedroom window awakened Peter  
from an unsettled sleep. In the gloom he made out the ancient alarm  
clock on the bedside table: half-eleven. Still in need of comfort and  
contemplation, and unable to sleep anyway, he decided to go up to St.  
Joseph's to pray before the Blessed Virgin. Even after the mockery of  
the "sweating" Child of Prague, Peter found great comfort in his  
devotion to Mary, possibly a legacy of his mother's faith. Donning a  
warm jumper and jeans, Peter headed down the stairs. He was still so  
distracted that he forgot to duck and smacked his forehead hard  
against the low ceiling. Rubbing his head and feeling woozy, he  
tugged on his coat, opened the front door and stepped outside. A cold,  
stinging rain splintered down on the empty road.

Assumpta suddenly appeared at the low hedge bordering the garden,  
Fionn whimpering miserably beside her on his lead. "Assumpta?" Peter  
called tentatively, thinking he might be greeting a figment of his  
imagination. "Oh, hello," Assumpta said casually, secretly relieved  
when Peter had opened his door, making her arrival look like chance.  
She had actually been standing out in the wet for ages, plucking up  
the courage to knock.

"Assumpta, what are you doing out in this?" Fortunately, it didn't  
occur to Peter that she would only head out in this weather with a  
purpose in mind. Assumpta squinted at him. "Sunbathing." Peter  
knew he'd walked into that one, and motioned toward the door.  
"Please. Come in out of the weather."

Assumpta walked up to the house, yanking along a still-protesting  
Fionn. Peter held the door for her. Assumpta unhooked Fionn's lead  
and he immediately made himself comfortable on the warm, dry floor in  
the kitchen next to the cooker. Assumpta perched on edge of Peter's  
small sofa, not taking off her coat, not speaking, and not quite sure  
why she'd come. Her emotions were still swarming close to the surface  
after Peter's tortured display of affection earlier that evening, and  
though desperate to talk about it, feared that what he might be say  
would break her heart.

Peter lingered indecisively in the doorway, then closed the door gently and awkwardly seated  
himself next to her. There was a polite, uneasy silence that  
neither seemed to know how to break. Assumpta's eyes darted  
nervously around the room, her gaze coming to rest on the black priest's  
jacket, Roman collar like a sucker in the front pocket, draped over a  
chair.

Peter's mouth opened as if to say something, then closed again.  
Assumpta took a deep breath and asked the question that had sent her  
slogging up here through the rain, in the middle of the night:  
"Peter, what do you want?"

He turned his head away so she wouldn't see the tears, shaking his  
head, trying to will them back. His hands were folded tightly in his  
lap, knuckles white. Assumpta lightly touched his arm to focus his  
attention. "Peter, talk to me."

Peter lost his battle, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he sobbed  
raggedly, "It's no good. I'm useless. I just can't handle it!"

"Can't handle what?" Peter's outburst alarmed Assumpta. She  
realized that she depended on Peter to be the collected and rational  
one, and here he was falling apart.

"Everything! All of it. The Church. Ballyk. You. Miracles. Being  
a priest. You name it, I can't handle it!" Peter held his head in  
his hands, weeping unreservedly.

Assumpta, usually so practised at counseling her friends through their  
troubles, had no idea what to do; indeed, her first instinct in the  
face of such naked emotion that she knew she played a part in  
provoking was to flee. "I—I'd better go," she said, moving to get up.  
Peter grabbed her hand, pleading, "Assumpta, don't go. Please."

Peter lifted his eyes to Assumpta's, holding her disbelieving gaze  
with his own, for the first time not breaking away as he had done  
countless times across the bar at Fitzgerald's. The only sound aside  
from the storm was their nervous, shallow breathing as they stared  
across three unrequited years of wanting each other. There was a  
mighty thunderclap, and the lights flickered out. Neither moved.  
Peter's grip on Assumpta's hand tightened, and one last, slow tear  
trickled down his cheek. Assumpta tenderly brushed it away with her  
thumb. Her touch reverberated through Peter like a great bell being  
rung, every nerve standing on end. Peter reached over to her, for a  
wordless moment holding her angel's face in his hand. Something  
ticked over in him, and suddenly there in the dark they were no longer  
priest and publican but simply man and woman. "Assumpta," he  
whispered urgently, pulling her to him in a kiss.

Under normal circumstances, as if there could be normal circumstances,  
both would have wanted their first encounter to be gentler and more  
romantic, but after so long waiting, there was no time. The coupling  
was quick and clumsy, as befit lovers with much passion but little  
practice. Peter and Assumpta wrestled out of their heavy, wet coats  
and managed to tug away a few other crucial bits of clothing in their  
rush: lashing kisses, gasping, grazing bites, moans, tender laughter,  
limbs entwined, safe the darkness and sound of pounding rain.

Peter awoke at first light, alone, in his bed. For a long, tortured  
while he stared at the ceiling, going over last night's unexpected,  
incredible encounter with Assumpta. Unwillingly blushing, he pulled  
the counterpane over his head and tried to convince himself that it  
had only been a storm-influenced dream rather than the irrevocable act  
that would forever change things between them. That proved  
impossible. He could still feel her, smell her, taste her. It had  
happened. He had been weak and selfish, and had ruined everything.  
Heavy with chagrin and guilt, Peter roused himself from bed, dressed,  
and went to St. Joseph's to prepare for morning Mass.

At noon, Assumpta was behind the bar at Fitzgerald's, absently serving  
lunch and mentally distancing herself from the unreality of her and  
Peter's lovemaking. It was so unthinkable as to be laughable, but  
here it had happened. She hadn't had time yet to compose what to say  
for the next time she saw Peter. She'd first have to determine how  
she felt about it, and was damned if she knew. After dozing lightly  
in each other's arms, Assumpta had slipped away to dress and leave  
before the sun rose and someone caught her sneaking out of the  
curate's house. As she snapped the lead onto Fionn's collar, she had  
caught Peter watching her. His expression of pained confusion baffled  
her, after she thought things had finally been settled between them.  
She had left then, without saying anything.

The front door rattled, signaling a customer. Assumpta shook her  
head, hard, trying to gain a grip on the day. Siobhan Mehigan came  
in, taking her customary seat at the end of the bar. "A bottle of  
Harp and a sandwich, please, Assumpta--what's that?" Assumpta's hand  
flew up to the hickey she'd noticed on her neck in the mirror and  
attempted to mask with make-up. Siobhan grinned conspiratorially.  
"Sure, it's good to see you getting out and about, anyway." Assumpta  
smiled tightly, wanting to confide in her friend, but saying nothing.

Peter ached to confide in someone as well; indeed, his friend Brendan  
Kearney had come to him with a similar situation involving Siobhan  
several months ago. Brendan had a level head and understanding  
nature. Still, it was too much to burden him with news as explosive as  
Ballykissangel's curate and Fitzgerald's landlady spending the night  
together.

Peter was struggling mightily with what had happened,  
wondering if it was a new beginning or a definitive ending. He loved  
being a priest, but that part of him was now mortally wounded. He  
needed guidance from his Church. Fr. MacAnally, Peter's parish priest  
and immediate superior, had agreed with Peter's request to meet the  
next day. If nothing else, Fr. Mac would provide the cold,  
unsentimental assessment Peter thought he needed.

As they sat in the empty sanctuary of St. Joseph's, Peter kept the  
consultation purposefully vague. He was unwilling to reveal everything to  
Assumpta's worst enemy, and yet still hoped to get answers. Fr. Mac  
was having none of it. "You don't fool me. Shall I tell you what the  
problem is? Assumpta Fitzgerald." Peter was caught short, surprised  
he was that transparent. His pulse beat visibly against the tight  
Roman collar around his neck as he stuttered, "I hope you don't think  
that—nothing's happened."  
"Is something likely to happen?"  
"No." Peter, never the best of liars, knew he wasn't at all  
convincing.

With some strongly-worded advice from Fr. Mac fresh in his ears, Peter headed  
down to Fitzgerald's for the conversation he dreaded. He wasn't sure  
which would be worse: telling Assumpta his decision, or that telling  
her gave the decision finality. There would be no going back once he  
spoke the words aloud. He opened the reception door, the entrance he  
always used when hesitant to face Assumpta head-on. Assumpta's good  
friend Niamh Egan, with her infant son Kieran, was on her way out. At  
the other end of the bar, Brendan, Siobhan and Dr. Michael Ryan were  
celebrating Niamh's saving of the wood from her father's road  
construction project. Peter smiled an uncomfortable hello at Niamh,  
chucked Kieran under the chin and greeted the assembled in a subdued  
manner, all the while looking over to Assumpta.

Upon seeing him, Assumpta's hand again touched the now-fading mark on  
her neck. Siobhan caught this, looking from Assumpta to Fr. Clifford  
and back to Assumpta, who met her eyes briefly before turning away.  
Peter motioned toward the kitchen. Assumpta softly told the regulars  
that she'd be right back, and to let her know if any other  
customers came in. Siobhan watched Assumpta follow Fr. Clifford from  
the room, unwilling to believe the connection she'd just made.

Assumpta shut the door quietly behind her and fussed with the electric  
kettle and tea towels, doing everything possible not to face what she  
knew was coming when she saw the pinched expression on Peter's  
face. Not to face it, because as soon as Peter entered Fitzgerald's,  
Assumpta had realized exactly how she felt about their night together,  
about him. For his part, Peter kept his distance, remaining across  
the room. Eyes red, and only moderately in control, he told her that  
he wanted to be a priest more than her lover.

Assumpta swallowed hard and gripped the old Aga's oven handle tightly  
with both hands, as if it would ground her, drain away the anger and  
heartbreak into the floor so she would not have to feel it. So close,  
so close, and now their chance had gone. Then she retreated behind  
her usual screen of acid self-defense, hissing low so those out at the  
bar could not hear: "Fine. Go on retreat. I wouldn't want you to  
make any decisions based only on one night." This took Peter aback.  
As much damage as he had already done, he was desperate for her to  
know he cared for her far beyond that. But it came out all wrong. "It  
wasn't—-I couldn't-—I had to choose, Assumpta," he finished desperately.

Assumpta looked hard at him. She had not missed Peter's unconsciously  
twisting an imaginary wedding band on his ring finger during his  
entire speech, actions betraying his words. Still, Assumpta did not  
comment, because this much she knew: once he chose the  
path he felt was right, no amount of persuasion would change his mind.

Suddenly she could no longer bear to be in the same room with their  
shared grief, and ended their conversation with the cryptic pronouncement, "At  
least I know I made the right decision." Peter, not understanding,  
watched Assumpta hurry back into the bar, yanking the kitchen door  
open with one hand while quickly wiping her eyes with the other. He  
clenched his jaw, almost as if attempting to keep him rooted in place  
rather than chase after her. Whatever her decision was, it didn't  
matter for him now. It was over. For what seemed the millionth time,  
and the last, he let the tears well in his eyes.

Unbidden, an old conversation between him and Assumpta played on an  
endless loop in Peter's head as he drove out of Ballykissangel.

"Do you ever want what you can't have?"  
"Sure."  
"What stopped you?"  
"Me."

He'd never wanted more for it to be untrue.


	2. Chapter 2

Pt. 2  
_Takes place three years after "Changing Times!"  
but as I've never seen Series 4-6, it's in a state of Series 3  
suspended animation with a few updates._

"It's been long enough, hasn't it?"

Peter turned the postcard over in his long fingers. One side was a  
typical Irish scenic countryside shot, the other an  
address: "Fr. P. Clifford, St. Mary's Hall School, Lancashire,  
England" and that message, written in Brendan's distinctive, educated  
scrawl. It had arrived in the morning's post and distracted him all  
day at school. Now, standing alone at the bar of the local pub with  
his solitary evening pint, he had time to mull its implications.

Since Peter left Ballykissangel, he and Brendan had kept up a  
sporadic, arm's-length correspondence. Peter tried to get Brendan to  
use email, but Brendan was a pen-and-paper man as traditional as his  
three-piece suits. So, every few months and at Christmastime, each  
would receive a letter or postcard from the other with the latest  
news: from Brendan, the birth of Aisling, his and Siobhan's daughter,  
and his being made Headmaster of the Ballykissangel National School;  
from Peter, his mother passing away and his adjusting to life as a  
teacher. Brendan, probably sensing the delicacy of the subject, didn't  
mention Assumpta, and Peter never asked. Brendan had requested Peter  
come back to perform Aisling's christening, but Peter had demurred.  
It was too soon then and he feared for his emotional sanity, going  
back to the town that had broken his heart. Lately, however,  
Brendan had been pushing for him to return, if only to meet the little  
girl who had already heard so much about her "Uncle Peter."

He lifted his glass from the bar and sipped it contemplatively,  
wondering if he was at last ready. At the table behind him, a group  
of students broke into drunken song. He winced, still unused to a  
rowdy English pub even several years removed from the cozy  
surroundings of Fitzgerald's. At times, his years in Ballyk seemed  
more like a novel or TV show than real life. Perhaps it was easier to  
deal with if he thought of it in those removed terms, as though they  
happened to someone else.

Peter caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar and  
ruffled a hand through his hair. It was longer, curlier-—and  
uncharacteristically, unrulier—-now than when he was the curate at St.  
Joseph's. Seeing himself framed against the too-bright lights and the  
wrong people, Peter made his decision. He finished his pint in one  
practised gulp and walked out into the bustling road, buffeted by the  
Friday night pub crowd. It was the May Bank Holiday weekend soon.  
When he got home, he'd go online and buy a plane ticket. Then he'd  
send off a postcard of his own.

Peter boarded the early morning flight out of Manchester, stowing his  
rucksack in the overhead bin and taking a seat on the aisle, the  
better to unfold his long legs comfortably. When the plane was  
airborne he took a worn paperback from the pocket of his jacket, some  
light reading for the short hop to Dublin. He managed a chapter  
before the print grew fuzzy, his mind wandering as flight fatigue set in.

His last return to Ballykissangel had been after several weeks away on  
retreat, as suggested by Fr. Mac to refocus his vocation. It had been  
in the wake of Peter's personal crisis with Assumpta, not that he had  
disclosed the details to Fr. Mac, confessor or no. As Eamonn Byrne  
gave him a lift into town from the bus station, Peter was feeling as  
enthusiastic and committed as the day he left the seminary. But then  
he was swiftly crushed by Niamh's news of Assumpta's marriage to Leo,  
confided unwittingly at Peter's insistence. He knew then that he loved  
Assumpta, and that no amount of prayer and isolation would change it.  
Only Peter's willpower stood between his vocation and his heart. Now  
that Assumpta was with someone else, he was positive that the choice  
to remain in the priesthood was the right one to make.

While Assumpta remained in London, Peter fell back into the daily  
rhythms of his life in Ballykissangel: saying Mass at St. Joseph's in  
the morning, performing parochial duties in the afternoon and having a  
pint with the regulars at Fitzgerald's in the evening. Occasionally,  
he'd even help Niamh out as she looked after the pub while its owner  
was away. He would clear away empty glasses, wash windows, or  
entertain Kieran, with whom he'd become great pals. He was gradually  
regaining his equilibrium. Assumpta's absence played no small part in  
it, though Peter didn't admit that to himself.

One fine Tuesday afternoon a few months after his return, Peter had an  
appointment to meet with Niamh to go over arrangements for Kieran's  
christening. He fairly loped down the hill, reveling in the gorgeous  
day, feeling better than he had in ages. The sky was as bright a blue  
as when he first came to Ballyk. That is, before the rain came and he  
had hitched a lift into town—-

Ah, don't go there, Peter admonished himself lightly, determined to  
keep his good mood.

Seated at the kitchen table in the Garda stationhouse, Peter asked,  
"Where's Ambrose today?" He nodded toward the empty office across the  
hall. "On foot patrol, hunting up some crime," Niamh, making the tea,  
said over her shoulder without a hint of the indulgent smile usually  
offered when commenting on Ambrose's single-minded dedication to his  
job.

Niamh placed a mug in front of Peter and sat down across from him with  
her own. She seemed preoccupied. Peter attempted some small talk.  
"I hear your dad's thinking of starting his Ballykissangel festival up  
again—"

Niamh broke in as if unaware he was speaking. "I had a call from  
Assumpta this morning." "Oh?" Peter's expression went beyond the  
polite, priestly interest Niamh expected; his face had lit up like a  
child receiving a present. She continued, tentatively, feeling  
somehow as though she was taking that gift away, "She's renting out  
Fitzgerald's to a tenant and is using the money to go in on that wine  
bar in Dublin she was talking about last year. She isn't coming back  
to Ballykissangel."

Blinking rapidly, Peter felt the breath knocked out of him. He was  
baffled. Wasn't he past this? Hadn't he made his decision to be a  
priest? Why should it matter to him now whether or not Assumpta came  
home?

Niamh took Peter's silence for lack of comment, so went on. "There's  
something else." Peter didn't know what bigger news there could be  
for him than Assumpta leaving Ballyk forever. "Leo and Assumpta are  
expecting a baby." Now Niamh was working herself into an indignant  
lather. "I was all for them being a couple, but they've only just  
gotten back together and now they're rushing into parenthood, and  
doing it away from everyone she knows—Father, are you okay?"

Peter, hands trembling in his lap under the table, was unable to mask  
his distress in time. "It is good news, Niamh," he said in a voice  
that didn't seem to be his, smiling as benignly as he could manage.  
"Maybe motherhood will be good for Assumpta, soften her hard edges a  
bit. And she couldn't have chosen a better man," Peter finished  
unconvincingly. "And anyway, we're here to discuss the most important  
day in Kieran's life. Let's concentrate on that, shall we?"

After he and Niamh settled on the readings and hymns for the  
christening Mass, Peter headed back to St. Joseph's befogged by  
emotions he'd kept tidily away these past few months. He knelt before  
the statue of Mary, votive candles flickering at her feet, his head  
resting in his hands. He loved this church and the town, but at this  
painful and unavoidable evidence of the reality of Assumpta's  
marriage, Peter knew his staying on in Ballykissangel had been a  
mistake. He'd never entirely escape his feelings for her, least of  
all in the town to which she was inextricably linked for him. He'd  
fallen in love with them both together, and to distance himself from  
one, he'd have to leave the other.

Fr. Mac seemed discreetly pleased at Fr. Clifford requesting a  
transfer. His patience had long ago worn thin with the curate who had  
challenged him over and over rather than following orders as a good  
subordinate should. Fr. Clifford's inability to scrub Assumpta  
Fitzgerald from his mind was as good a reason for him to go as any.  
He determined that Peter's last priestly duty in Ballyk would be  
Kieran's christening. Peter bargained to be allowed to say goodbye to  
his congregation, to which Fr. Mac agreed—-"but Father, don't be  
honest," he had spit through clenched teeth as they stood in the  
gravel forecourt of the Cilldargan parish house. And so, before those  
he loved gathered in St. Joseph's, Peter made the second painful  
going-away speech of his priesthood. He had been transferred back to  
Manchester to work at a school there, he said. His mother was  
poorly, so it was a blessing that the church had chosen this moment in  
time to send him home. Honest.

Alone in the sacristy after everyone else had gone on to Brian  
Quigley's to wet the baby's head, Peter changed into civvies and  
retrieved his rucksack from the long, low wooden cabinet against the  
wall where he'd once secreted One-Tooth Tommy's remains at Brian's  
request. The tall sanctuary door creaked tentatively, and Brendan  
appeared. "At least you said goodbye before leaving." Peter smiled,  
but not with his eyes, acknowledging the unhappy circumstance of his  
departure but not elaborating. "Will you walk me out, Brendan?"

Peter woke with a start at the flight attendant's touch on his  
shoulder, thankful the seat beside him was empty for he had leaned a  
good way over into it as he dozed. "We are landing in a few moments,  
sir. Please return your seatback to its fully upright position." His  
stomach suddenly filled with butterflies. He tied a loose shoelace on  
his hiking boot, buckled his seat belt and took a deep breath as the  
plane descended into Dublin.

As Peter exited the baggage claim into the arrivals hall, he was  
surprised to see Brendan among the meeters-and-greeters crowd,  
customary newspaper folded under one arm. They clapped arms on each  
other's backs. "Are you here to collect me?" Peter asked, giddy at  
the sight of his old friend but perplexed at his unexpected appearance.

"I thought I'd give you some company for the bus ride back to Ballyk."

Peter felt the first twinge of something going on, as though he was  
being steered. "I'm a big boy, Brendan. You didn't have to take the  
time out of your day to come and fetch me from the airport." Brendan  
shrugged, squinting in the late morning sunlight as they exited the  
terminal. "Well, if a headmaster can't give himself the day off now  
and then, what good is the position?" Peter laughed as Brendan  
continued, "We've shared lots of bus rides, including your first into  
Ballyk. Well, most of it anyway, til a confessional fell from the  
sky. As I recall, you thought you'd walk the rest of the way."  
Before Peter could dwell on the reference, Brendan chuckled neutrally,  
patted him on the back, and they walked on to the bus stop.

This time Peter took a window seat, wanting to take in all of the  
scenery. "It was fancy of you to fly in," Brendan observed in his  
gently mocking way. Peter shrugged. "Now that I'm a teacher and not  
a curate, I can keep a fiver here and there for myself. Got a cheap  
internet fare. You should look into it, Brendan. The web is a  
wonderful place." Brendan smiled. "Sure, webs are for spiders, Peter."

As the bus rumbled out of Dublin on the N11 toward Wicklow Town,  
Brendan regaled Peter with stories of Brian's preparations for the  
festival taking place that weekend. "He ran out of ideas to  
borrow from other towns, so had to come up with some of his own. But  
no ram crowning this year! Siobhan is quite pleased but still keeping  
an eye out for caged livestock." It warmed Peter to hear these  
slices of life, not realizing until now how much he'd missed the  
everyday gossip of the locals.

Later, when they drew closer to Ballykissangel, the conversation waned  
as Peter directed his full attention out of the window. He found  
himself enchanted with the countryside all over again: the emerald  
fields and hedges; snug, low-roofed cottages; grazing cows and sheep.  
Glimpsing St. Joseph's steeple off in the distance, peeking out over  
the springtime green of the trees and clad in its eternal scaffolding,  
he felt the visceral upwelling of happiness of a person returning home  
after a long time away. The tear in his eye surprised him, and he  
wiped it away surreptitiously before Brendan could notice.

The bus crossed the bridge over the River Angel and turned left,  
letting off in front of Kathleen Hendley's shop as always. Peter  
stepped out, noting with a strange relief that "Fitzgerald's" was  
still above the pub in its familiar yellow-on-blue lettering.  
Possibly the tenant thought it too recognizable to change, or just  
couldn't be bothered to repaint. Overhead, strung between the two  
buildings, fluttered the old banner for the Ballykissangel festival.

The two men walked up the busy road to the school, where Peter would  
leave his pack until Siobhan was able to drive them out to Brendan's  
that afternoon. "Are you sure it's no trouble to put me up? I can  
always find accommodation somewhere."

"Not at all. That way I can keep my eye on you." Peter wasn't sure  
what to make of that, but the twinkle in Brendan's eye assured him it  
was a joke.

Once Peter had secured his belongings in Brendan's office, he rubbed  
his hands together eagerly. "So, where's Aisling? Is there a chance  
of meeting her before lunch?"

Brendan nodded. "Niamh has her during the day. She's sort of the  
child-minder for the village now." Peter's eyebrow went up. "Just  
how many babies have been born around here?" He immediately regretted  
the question and smiled uncomfortably, acknowledging the accidental  
and unwanted opening of that Pandora's box. Brendan understood and  
answered as if there was nothing amiss. "There's Kieran,  
Aisling, and you know Niamh and Ambrose had another this year…all  
sorts. Let's go down and get my girl." Peter appreciated Brendan's  
discretion; he must have realized how painful the topic was for his  
friend.

They ambled back down the hill that curved through the village,  
through the festival crowds, past the carnival rides and food vans and  
children rushing about with balloons and confetti eggs. No one seemed  
to recognize Peter yet, possibly due to the civilian dress and longer  
hair. "Manchester started up an Irish Festival a few years ago," he  
commented. "More professionally done than this one, but it's missing  
the things I love about this—the town and the people." Brendan  
huffed in agreement. Peter indicated St. Joseph's with a tilt of his  
head. "How's the new curate getting on? Though I suppose he's hardly  
new anymore."

"Fr. Aidan? Fine. He's quite earnest, and a bit less pot-stirring  
than the last one we had here." Peter grinned, giving Brendan a  
friendly shove with his shoulder.

At the sight of his old house and the rushing memory of the intimacies  
that took place there, Peter went as bright red as the front door but  
recovered himself quickly. He gazed up at the cerulean sky and then  
around at the bustle of fairgoers. Somewhere a sound system had been  
set up, and "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang wafted above the crowd.  
He took a deep, satisfying breath of the clear country air. "I never  
forgot this place. This is like coming home."

"There are a lot of people here who miss you, Peter," Brendan said.

Peter only had time to acknowledge the statement with a cursory nod  
before a moppet with a tangle of long, curly red hair and a pink  
gingham dress came toddling speedily up the street toward them. "I  
running! Mummy! Look," she was calling behind her. Though her features  
were obscured by her movement, Peter recognized the hair from the few  
pictures Brendan had sent. "This is Aisling, yeah?" he said, but then  
noticed with some apprehension that Brendan had stopped walking.  
Rather than moving to collect his daughter, he instead seemed to be  
hanging back, watching the scene unfold.

Brendan put his hand on his friend's arm, almost as if trying to warn  
him. "Peter--"

"Mary!" The voice calling up around the bend after the little girl  
was female, sharp—-and familiar. And calling Peter's mother's name.  
Then Fionn came bounding up the road on a lead shortly revealed to be  
held by Assumpta Fitzgerald.

She always has that dog with her, Peter thought nonsensically.

Assumpta caught Mary about ten feet away from the two men, swinging  
her up over one hip. "No more running away like that, young lady, or  
I'll put Gard Egan on you!" Then she looked over at Peter, almost  
incidentally, and their eyes met for the first time since their  
conversation in Fitzgerald's kitchen. She gave a start of recognition  
but did not look surprised to see him.

Peter and Assumpta stared at each other as she continued to struggle  
with her squirming daughter. He took in her details quickly, almost  
unconsciously: hair even longer than the day they first met, halfway  
down her back and caught up in a loose ponytail that left tendrils  
free to frame her face; features softer; body curvier in sweater and  
skirt. Her eyes, however, were just as dark and challenging as ever.  
And just like that, the carefully crafted life of denial that Peter  
had constructed for himself since leaving Ballykissangel blew away  
with the breeze that was gently lifting Assumpta's bangs from her  
forehead. Several boys shouting and kicking a football came up on  
either side of the small party and passed it between the men and  
Assumpta, unaware of the drama playing out. This snapped the players  
back to the moment.

Brendan tried again. "Peter, it wasn't supposed to happen this way--"

Peter cut him off, spinning him around by the elbow. Assumpta held  
her ground, seemingly satisfied to wait for Peter to make the first  
move. Mary continued to wriggle.

"What's going on?" Peter asked, voice rising with confusion. He  
realized now that this trip had been a setup, that at least Brendan  
and Assumpta had been in on this. They must have known he would not  
have come voluntarily under these circumstances. Seeing Assumpta was  
painful enough, but to face her child by another man-—and with his  
mother's name, for God's sake-—was an emotional gut punch Peter was  
not prepared to take.

Before Brendan could answer, Mary lost patience and began to shriek,  
"Mummy! Down!" The two men turned back around as Assumpta shushed  
her soothingly. Mary obligingly putting her head on her mother's  
shoulder, and looked over at Peter with a toddler's typical reticence  
toward strangers. It was when she was at last still that Peter  
registered her pale green eyes and then the thin, rose-colored lips  
that looked just like his mother's.

The phrase knocked around his head: lips that look just like my  
mother's.

Assumpta watched Peter closely as the tumblers clicked and the  
realization washed over him: the startled look of disbelief; his  
fingers alternately clenching and fanning as he attempted to grasp the  
enormity of the truth standing on the road before him; then, a  
stillness that Assumpta took for acceptance. She decided it was time.

She smiled at Peter cautiously, began walking over to him with their  
daughter. Mary lifted her head, and she regarded Peter with quiet  
curiosity.

In spite of the carnival bustle all around, he could hear himself  
breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

Storm

Pt. 3

Peter and Assumpta stood across from each other  
amid the crush of Ballykissangel festival goers on the  
main road, not having seen each other since he left on  
retreat three years ago. Peter took deep breaths,  
trying to center himself after being knocked for six  
by what he'd just discovered. Assumpta, hesitant and  
trying to gauge Peter's expression before making a  
move, was holding her lovely little girl Mary--their  
little girl--in her arms.

Peter shook his head slowly, struggling with the  
shocking flesh-and-blood reality of his child before  
him. "Not here. Not now," he said as evenly as  
possible, mindful that Mary was watching him, the  
stranger, keenly. He didn't want to alarm her, but at  
the same time was not at all prepared for this meeting  
here on a public street. He hadn't been given a  
choice—apparently, as Brendan had tried to explain, it  
wasn't supposed to have happened this way—but there  
were so many emotions churning through his system that  
Peter felt it best to get some distance and regroup,  
before saying or doing anything, regardless of what  
fate had presented him.

Brendan, who had been walking with Peter when they  
had unexpectedly run into Assumpta, recognized the  
storm brewing in his friend and gently took him by the  
elbow. "Let's all go back to my house and sort this  
through." Peter yanked his arm away and feeling as if  
in slow motion, walked past a stricken-looking  
Assumpta, and Mary, who was already distracted by the  
balloon vendor up the street. Peter ached to reach  
out there and then to gather his precious little girl  
in his arms but kept walking, down the hill, through  
town and across the bridge over the Angel. Aware of  
Brendan catching up, trying to bring him back while  
calling as little attention to the scene as possible,  
Peter kept walking.

It was well past closing time when Peter stumbled  
back into Ballykissangel. Lost in anguished and  
furious thought, he had managed to walk all the way to  
Cilldargan and had more than a few morose pints at his  
old haunt, the Glenwood. It had started to rain  
lightly. Waving off several offers of a lift from  
passing cars, Peter sang football chants and old  
Motown tunes to himself along the dark road back to  
Ballyk, dimly aware of looking foolish. The only  
other times he could remember getting this drunk alone  
were when each of his parents died and he could not  
immediately face the pain. Trudging woozily up the  
hill toward the church, he saw the windows in his  
former house lit and someone moving around inside. He  
felt a sudden longing for his old, neatly-defined  
curate's life, with Assumpta at arm's-length.

Yapping caught Peter's attention. Kathleen was coming  
from the opposite direction, walking her aggressive  
little dog. She had obviously heard he was in town  
because she didn't look surprised to see him but  
merely sniffed, "Good evening, Father," before going  
on her way. Ironic, he thought; at least one thing in  
Ballykissangel was just as he remembered it.

Brendan was waiting up for him, both worried  
and irritated when he opened the door to a sheepish  
Peter, who nodded in half-hearted greeting. "Sorry if  
I caused any anxiety." Brendan, severe expression on  
his face, sat down on the sofa and indicated the chair  
next to it.

Peter continued on into the kitchen: "Brendan,  
I don't want to talk about it, alright? I'm a big  
boy. I just need to sleep on it."

"Peter, I know this was traumatic, but it's not like  
you to run away from problems. You were always the  
strongest advocate of facing them head-on. Believe  
me, I know that this can be the best thing that's ever  
happened to you--"

Peter held up his hand, eyes flashing warning.  
"Brendan, enough. You knew exactly what was going to  
happen yet let me walk right into it!"

Brendan countered evenly, "You are my friends.  
You created a beautiful little girl and Assumpta was  
ready for you to meet her. I wanted to help."

Peter rounded on him. "Help! Helping would have been  
to let me know three years ago when she was born!"  
There was a tentative knock on the front door.  
Brendan answered and wordlessly motioned the caller  
in. It was Assumpta, who smiled cautiously at Peter.  
"You weren't easy to find."

Peter swallowed. "Let's go outside." He took her by  
the hand, hard, and was unwittingly electrified by her  
touch.

Assumpta leaned up against her van, unsure of where  
to start. Peter did the same a few feet away from  
her, so many questions to ask but so much anger as  
well. He could only manage a sharp, hostile laugh,  
his breath turning to mist in the cold rain.

Assumpta began tentatively. "We didn't really get a  
chance to talk back there."

Peter answered flatly, "No."

"I was out walking Fionn and Kathleen mentioned  
seeing you, erm, weaving back into town towards  
Brendan's."

Peter nodded, arms folded, directing his eyes up at  
the night sky, "Mm-hmm."

She said neutrally, but with some apprehension:  
"Peter, would you look at me when I'm talking to you?"

"Assumpta…" Peter shifted his weight and rubbed his  
eyes tiredly. "Where's Mary tonight?"

"Niamh has her until I get back."

Peter couldn't help his next remark. "What, from  
telling me about the past three years of our  
daughter's life?"

"Peter, I…" Assumpta didn't have an immediate  
response to this and watched as he began to pace,  
hands running through his hair, growing more agitated  
until he turned a few feet from her and, in a primal  
scream of grief, wailed, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Assumpta's own, long-nursed pain overcame any guilt  
she'd allowed herself to feel as she spat out  
furiously, "Because you left me! You made your  
decision, and it was for the church! You had no right  
to know!" She was on tip-toe now, finger jabbing in  
Peter's direction.

Peter was disbelieving. "I just went away on  
retreat! You moved away and married another man!"

Assumpta immediately retorted, "ANOTHER man? Did I  
have a choice? I was pregnant, the father was a  
priest, and I didn't want to ruin things for  
his--vocation!" The word carried all the bitterness  
she could muster.

Emotion combined with the lager was getting the best  
of Peter. "You had a baby. You had my baby, and you  
didn't tell me! I could have been there for you—for  
her! You just don't think, do you, Assumpta?" He  
leaned against van's cab, elbows on the roof, head in  
hands.

The fire went out of Assumpta then, a hand shakily  
sweeping her wet hair out of her face. "I—I wasn't  
ready to tell you until now. I wasn't strong enough  
to face you until now."

"Ready? Assumpta, you've kept me from our daughter  
all these years. What's your readiness got to do with  
it?" Too spent to continue for the moment, Peter  
turned to head into Brendan's house, giving Assumpta  
one last heartrending look. "People call me 'Father'  
all day, and here I was one all this time."

Assumpta watched Peter walk through the front door  
and shut it dully behind him. She remained,  
motionless in the dark for some time before climbing  
in the van and driving slowly away.

From behind the heavy curtains in Brendan's front  
window, Peter watched her go.

Next morning, Peter donned his old rollneck jumper,  
jeans and hiking boots and set off for a long walk  
directly after enduring an awkward breakfast with  
Brendan. It wasn't fifteen minutes before he heard a  
bike approaching from behind, then a cheery but  
guarded, "Ah, Father. Wondered when we'd see you  
again." Niamh overtook him. She was on her way to her  
father's house to do her weekly Saturday cleaning. Peter  
was genuinely pleased to see her though her address  
caused him to wince, given recent events. They  
embraced.

"Niamh, it is alright to call me 'Peter'."

At that her expression turned knowing, but she merely  
continued with her opening thread of conversation.  
"Brendan said he was going to try and get you down  
here for the Bank Holiday weekend. Are you enjoying  
my father's festival?"

Peter's brow wrinkled skeptically. "Have you  
not spoken to Assumpta at all since last night? You  
must have heard that I met her—our—daughter yesterday,  
a bit unexpectedly for me."

Niamh looked down, tacitly admitting it. Peter  
sought her eyes for the truth. "Did you know Mary was  
my daughter? Ah, everyone must have. It's literally  
all over her face!" The fleeting relaxation he had  
been enjoying on his hike vanished.

Niamh pushed the bike along beside her as they walked  
toward Brian's. "Assumpta never made any  
announcements about who the father was, because she  
knew we would assume it was Leo. Of course, Kathleen  
figured it out. She always did have a sort of sixth  
sense about these things. And Ballyk is a small town,  
so the rumor spread quickly." She stopped, wanting  
Peter to have the best explanation she felt he was  
owed. "Assumpta wanted to tell you herself. She  
warned us not to breathe a word of it to you. But  
things ended so badly between you two. She honestly  
thought you were gone for good, and thought marrying  
Leo was the best choice for her future. When she found  
out about the baby it seemed to make even more sense."

At this Peter began tugging at his right eyebrow,  
which Niamh remembered well as his unconscious sign of  
agitation. "Is Leo in Ballykissangel too?"

Niamh held up her hand in gentle rebuke. "I've said  
more than I should have already. Go to Assumpta. Let  
her tell you those things." She caught Peter by the  
arm to focus his attention. "Father--Peter--she cares  
for you a great deal."

Determined now to face Assumpta, Peter paused briefly  
outside the main door to Fitzgerald's before gingerly  
ducking inside. The bar was empty, oddly just as it  
had been the last festival for which Peter had been in  
town. The interior was miraculously unchanged, save  
for bright new lighting fixtures. Peter's heart  
lifted a little at the sight of the turf fire going,  
the pumps gleaming, the sunlight filtering softly  
through the waterglass windows. He was momentarily  
transported back to a time when things weren't so  
complicated and, unrequited feelings for Assumpta  
aside, he had been happy. Entering Fitzgerald's was  
like walking into the embrace of an old friend.

He heard a rummaging in the kitchen, the rattle of  
beer bottles in a crate, and for a moment almost  
thought Assumpta would appear, complete with bandage  
on her forehead. However, it was an unfamiliar woman,  
an older brunette, who appeared at the kitchen door  
with a bar towel over her shoulder and a warm smile on  
her face. "What can I get you?"

"Nothing, thanks—I was looking for Assumpta  
Fitzgerald?"

The woman nodded. "Ah. She's out at the moment, but  
is working tonight. Can I tell her who came by?"

Peter was already out the door. "No, no. I'll just  
come by later. Thank you."

By now it was lunchtime. Peter took the steps into  
Hendley's two at a time, willing to face the  
proprietress if it got him something to eat healthier  
than a hot dog at one of the food stands and cheaper  
than up the road at Quigley's Prawn Cracker. Sure  
enough, Kathleen was behind the till and received him  
with a frosty, "Good morning," as he sidled past, not  
even bothering with "Father" this time. As Peter was  
regarding the wrapped-sandwich selection in the cool  
display, the bell on the front door jingled signaling  
another patron.

"Father Clifford, I presume." Father Mac's voice had  
lost none of its drawling, dripping invective.

Peter smiled tightly, extending his right  
hand. "Father MacAnally."

Father Mac kept his hands clasped behind his back as  
Kathleen looked on with appropriate disapproval.  
Peter was unsure exactly what Father Mac knew of his  
situation, but had a good guess. Still, he wasn't in  
the humor to find out. "Just in for a visit, Father,"  
he said, pleasantly as he could manage.

"A short one, I hope," Father Mac hissed.  
"You've already made enough trouble for people here."  
In that painful moment, Peter had his confirmation and  
felt genuine remorse for having lied to his confessor  
about his night with Assumpta.

"I'm sorry, Father."

After that, Peter hiked back out to Brendan's rather  
than risk running into any others in town who would  
feel the need to voice their disapproval over his  
parental situation. He felt the woman at Fitzgerald's  
would probably mention to Assumpta about the English  
stranger who was asking after her; in any event  
Assumpta would be there for work later. Peter sat in  
Brendan's comfortable, worn sitting-room chair as  
afternoon wore on to dusk, then evening. He picked  
absently at the fabric on the arm, trying to arrange  
his thoughts objectively, wanting to approach things  
rationally and productively, to avoid another  
confrontation with Assumpta like last night's. He had  
a daughter to consider now.

Brendan did not return home; maybe he had headed  
straight to Fitzgerald's from his day out. Peter  
sighed heavily and zipped his windcheater. Now or  
never.

This time Peter used the entrance marked  
"Accommodation", the one he had always used when  
hesitant to face Assumpta head-on. Peter felt as  
though a spotlight shone down on his head, so complete  
was the shift of the room's attention to him standing  
in the doorway. Fitzgerald's on a Saturday evening was  
always a busy place, with the locals,  
weekend-go-to-town farmers and even some from nearby  
villages; now there were even a few fairgoers in the  
mix. From her place behind the pumps where she was  
drawing a pint, Assumpta regarded Peter coolly.  
Brendan, Siobhan and Padraig were in their customary  
seats at the far end of the bar.

At first Peter was frozen, not sure what to  
do, eyes darting from Assumpta to the three friends.  
Padriag noticed him first. "Father Clifford! Come  
join us!"

Siobhan turned in her chair. "Ah, Father!  
Yes, come sit with us for a bit. Assumpta, another  
bottle of Harp and a—pint of lager, right, Father?"  
Peter nodded hesitantly. The only barstool available  
was his old usual, which happened to be directly in  
the middle of the bar near Assumpta. She wordlessly  
placed the beer mat, then the pint, in front of Peter,  
eyes challenging him to speak. The other three seemed  
to sense the undercurrent of awkwardness but typically  
did not draw attention to it. Not wanting to  
embarrass either of their friends, they simply sat and  
chatted with Peter about other, inoffensive subjects  
like religion and politics.

Assumpta was uncharacteristically quiet, leaning  
against the back counter and chewing a green apple.  
Peter had wanted to talk, but realized she was waiting  
for him to make the first move. He never could find  
the right moment. A busy bar wasn't the ideal place  
for this kind of private discussion, anyway.

Came the inevitable moment when Assumpta reached for  
the old brass hand bell and rang it vigorously. "Last  
orders, please!" Eventually the remaining patrons  
rustled themselves up from their tables and shuffled  
out the front door. Peter didn't move, making brief,  
meaningful eye contact with Assumpta before glancing  
at Brendan.

Brendan put his hand on Siobhan's shoulder.  
"We have a sleeping daughter to collect from Niamh."

Siobhan, always so quick to read the situation,  
clapped Peter on the back and got up from her  
barstool. "Good to see you, Father."

Padraig alone seemed oblivious. "I better go,  
too. Never know what Kevin might be up to. I trust  
the boy, but teenagers are a completely different  
animal! Father, you coming?"

Brendan cut in, whispering something in Padraig's  
ear. Padraig nodded and he followed Brendan and  
Siobhan out. "G'night, Assumpta. G'night, Father  
Clifford." "G'night."

Assumpta bolted the door shut and turned, facing  
Peter, leaning against the door briefly. Peter  
smiled awkwardly.

Assumpta went back behind the bar, searching on the  
shelf beneath the till and coming up with a bottle of  
wine. Peter chuckled warily. "Last time we started a  
conversation like this, you ended up barring me."

"Don't press your luck then," Assumpta shot back  
tartly, rooting around for glasses.

Peter had much to ask her, to confront her about, but  
in that moment realized that at the root of it all and  
in spite of himself, he loved her, and couldn't help  
what he said next.

"I've missed you, Assumpta."

Her reply was gentler now, her expression remarkably  
unguarded. "I know."

Assumpta poured each of them a glass and then leaned  
on the counter, taking a sip before nodding toward the  
kitchen door. "Let's go sit down and have a proper  
conversation."

The kitchen was low-lit, still with the cream walls  
and green trim, the Aga giving off its slow heat. The  
kitchen, where almost every important conversation  
they'd ever had took place. The last time they were  
here, Peter had told Assumpta that he'd chosen the  
priesthood over her.

They sat across from each other at the familiar  
wooden table. Peter cleared his throat. "Is Mary  
here?"

Assumpta motioned to the baby monitor on the  
counter, red light indicating it was on. "Upstairs.  
Just moved into her big-girl bed a few weeks ago and  
she has a habit of wandering." Peter winced at one of  
the many milestones he had missed. Assumpta realized  
as much, and gingerly put her hand on his where it  
rested on the tabletop. "We have a lot of catching up  
to do, don't we, Peter?"

He turned his hand over and grasped hers tightly.  
"Yes."

They each took a drink, unsure of what to say next.

Peter nodded toward the monitor, their daughter's  
light snoring causing its indicator to blink in  
response. "How did you come up with the name 'Mary'?"

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be clever. You  
know it's after your mother."

"Sorry. I didn't realize I'd ever mentioned her to  
you by name."

"You hadn't."

It dawned on Peter that Assumpta had gone to some  
lengths for this information in order to name their  
child after his mother, and he was moved. "Thank you,  
Assumpta."

Assumpta looked at him levelly. "I didn't do it for  
you."

Peter shifted uncomfortably in the old chair, puzzled  
at her meaning but saving his emotional strength for  
bigger topics.

"So," Assumpta said, voice cracking and for an  
instant betraying her anxiety, "what sort of teaching  
do you do?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I'm not sure how much  
Brendan has filled you in, but I'm at a boarding  
school just north of Manchester. Father Collins knew  
I loved working with kids, and it removed me from the  
day-to-day…temptations of running a parish."

Assumpta was unable to help herself. "Did you not  
fall in love with anyone there, too?"

Peter was offended. "Cheap shot."

Assumpta shrugged. "It's the truth, isn't it?  
For you and me, it's the truth."

Peter answered as indignantly as he could  
manage, "I never said I was in love with you."

Now it was Assumpta's turn. "Oh, please."

Peter relented. "Fair enough." He took a  
breath. "Were you…in love with me?"

At this Assumpta abruptly got up from the table,  
going over to sink and briefly leaning over it, eyes  
closed, collecting herself. Then she spoke slowly  
and deliberately, her tone not inviting comment, all  
the while facing the window.

"Leo found me in London right after you'd told me  
your decision to stay in the Church. There was no  
future for me in Ballyk, and Leo offered me the  
security I thought I wanted. I was straight with him  
about the baby; he knew she wasn't his. It wasn't any  
sort of grand gesture. He just wanted me by any  
means, and for awhile I could go along with that.

"After a few months more Leo came to me with the  
suspicion that my heart was with the baby's father,  
and that he was on a hiding to nothing. We separated  
shortly before Mary was born, and divorced as soon as  
the law allowed. I used him and broke his heart.  
That wasn't right. He still hasn't spoken to me. I  
don't blame him.

"I was making a good life for myself and the baby in  
Dublin—finally went in with my friend in that wine  
bar, and rented Fitzgerald's to Oonagh, the woman you  
met here earlier. Then a few months ago, I decided to  
move back."

Assumpta squared her slim shoulders and turned to  
face Peter, gripping the edge of the sink for strength  
just as she had the oven handle three years previously  
during their last—and to her thinking then, at least,  
final—conversation.

Peter's eyes had not left Assumpta the entire time,  
but now as he digested her story he closed them and  
sighed. "What brought you back to Ballyk?"

Assumpta shrugged. "It's home. Everything and  
everyone I love is here." She was looking at Peter so  
hard she thought he might melt. Still, he interpreted  
the remark to mean that, since he hadn't been in  
Ballykissangel when she returned, she must not love  
him after all.

That's one question answered, he thought resignedly.  
There were other things to be addressed, though.  
"Does Mary know me? Does she know…who I am?"

"She knows she has a daddy who doesn't live with her,  
but she doesn't know it's you, no."

Peter slumped in his chair, defeated, feeling  
confirmed as a complete non-entity, an accidental  
participant in this entire scenario. He cleared his  
throat again, this time to stop the tremble in his  
voice. "Why not?"

Assumpta moved back to the table and sat next to him  
this time, heart shredded at the hurt she had caused  
him. "I thought it was best she not know her father  
was a priest just yet. When she got older, maybe  
she'd understand. Then I realized that after moving  
back here, everyone figured it out so quickly she  
would have heard it anyway. There was no protecting  
her from it."

Peter was exasperated. "What, from me?"

Assumpta shook her head emphatically. "No. I mean  
from finding out and having to answer for it. That is  
what I feared for her, that sort of confusion and  
guilt that I grew up with when the Church inserted  
itself into my parents' marriage and made it a living  
hell for all of us." Now she took Peter's hand,  
surprising him a little. "Once I faced my worst fear,  
I was able to see beyond it to what was right. And  
that was you."

In that instant, realizing the earnestness of all of  
her intentions toward their daughter, Peter silently  
forgave Assumpta. He exhaled, feeling as though he'd  
been holding his breath almost since he'd landed in  
Ireland.

"I wonder how the word never got to me in England.  
The gossips around here certainly would have spread  
the news up the chain of command."

"I warned everyone not to on pain of death. And that  
I'd cut off the tap."

They chuckled briefly at the joke, appreciating a  
moment of levity in the midst of the heavy  
conversation.

After a moment Assumpta turned somber again.  
"Brendan told me your mother died. I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

"Did you ever tell her about what happened between  
us?"

"No. She was so supportive of my vocation, even to  
the point of almost wrecking her marriage, that I  
couldn't let her know. She went to her grave  
believing I was blissfully happy in the priesthood,  
which I'd convinced myself I was, too, up until I met  
you in the road outside of St. Joseph's yesterday."  
This was said matter-of-factly, without rancor.

The church bell tolled the hour, pealing strongly in  
the clear night air. Peter remembered something,  
broke their handclasp and retrieved a small velvet  
pouch from his shirt pocket. Into his palm he gently  
shook out a delicate garnet rosary. "It was my mum's.  
I've carried it with me since she died. I'd like for  
Mary to have it. Not necessarily to encourage  
religious devotion," he added hastily, "but more as a  
remembrance of her Granny Mary. Something of my  
family."

Assumpta shook her head again, at first leaving Peter  
disappointed until saying, "Why don't you give it to  
her yourself? Come by tomorrow morning when she's  
awake." A pause as she noted Peter's skeptical  
expression. "It's alright, Peter. They're still not  
my beliefs, but they're her Dad's. And that's part of  
her, too."

The next morning, chill in the air, Peter knocked on  
the door at Fitzgerald's. Assumpta, expecting him,  
answered almost immediately. They had an awkward  
moment of greeting, both feeling as though they should  
kiss, or at least hug, but neither comfortable making  
the first move. "Go on through. She's in the kitchen  
eating her breakfast."

As with their previous meeting, Mary suffered from  
the usual toddler shyness in front of Peter. She  
didn't quite grasp what Assumpta's gentle, "Mary, this  
is your Dad," but they were the most powerful words  
Peter had ever heard. He was desperate to gather  
Mary up in his arms and kiss those round cheeks, but  
settled for a seat next to hers and sliding the rosary  
in its bag toward her.

Excited at the prospect of a present, Mary put down  
her toast, was intercepted by Assumpta with a wet  
cloth to clean her hands, and allowed Peter to open  
the pouch for her. At the sight of the rosary, her  
eyes widened. "Beads!" she exclaimed delightedly,  
then "Thanks!" with a brief lean of her head toward  
Peter in acknowledgment. He found himself trembling,  
fighting away sobs, this seemingly insignificant  
acknowledgment on her part meaning so much to him.

Assumpta saw his difficulty and came to his  
aid. "This was your granny's," she said, meeting  
Peter's eyes. "Your Granny Mary, your Dad's mother."

Mary, not understanding the abstract concept  
of a person who wasn't there, nodded obligingly, then  
returned her attention to the sparkly beads and large  
silver crucifix at the bottom. "Who's that?" she  
asked, pointing.

"That's Jesus," Peter answered, unsure of how  
far to go with the religious aspect but delighted at  
the interaction with his daughter.

"Jeezis," Mary said definitively, then  
proceeded to pull the rosary over her head to wear as  
a necklace. Assumpta went to remove it, but Peter  
nodded silently his assent. Mary giggled, delighted  
with herself. It seemed a postcard family moment, but  
as Peter sat there perched on his chair still wearing  
his zipped-up windcheater, he knew he was only a  
visitor.

Still, he was determined to make the most of it.

"Can I have a little more time with her?" he asked.

Assumpta was secretly thrilled at this, had  
hoped for it, but characteristically didn't let on.  
"We were going to spend the day at the festival.  
You're welcome to join us if you like."

At lunchtime, Peter bought them all hot dogs at Mary's  
request and they sat on the banks of the Angel to eat.  
He coaxed Mary onto his lap and within seconds had  
her demonstrating her command of "Incey Wincey  
Spider", complete with hand motions. Watching Peter  
and Mary's hands together crawl the spider up the  
imaginary spout, Assumpta realized with a start where  
Mary had gotten her long fingers. Her defenses were  
melting, and she couldn't help herself. "You're a  
natural." Peter and Assumpta smiled warmly at each  
other over their daughter's head.

"Would you like to go for a walk? Mary loves  
tossing stones into the water." Peter, releasing Mary  
to run, drew himself up tall, mockingly impressive.

"That's good, because I am an excellent  
stone-tosser. I've hit a Coke can at ten paces."

Mary ambled along the bank, chucking rocks into the  
water and squealing with delight the larger the splash  
they made. Peter and Assumpta were a short distance  
behind her, Assumpta's hand unconsciously darting out  
now and then to stop Mary from falling in.

The day had grown warm and Peter was feeling  
reflective. "You must have known how I felt about  
you."

Assumpta snorted with skepticism. "How would I know  
that?"

"Assumpta, are you serious?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I had no idea."

Peter was genuinely shocked. "I thought the dogs in  
the street knew."

"You think I would have gotten married, had Mary on  
my own, if I knew how you felt?"

Peter admitted his darkest fear. "If you were in love  
with someone else, sure, why not? But you weren't,  
were you?"

"I...I liked him. I thought in time he would drive  
you out of my head."

This was the closest Assumpta had ever come to  
verbally admitting her feelings for Peter, who now  
twined her fingers in his. "Weird, isn't it? How  
something can sound so exhilarating and depressing at  
the same time? Assumpta, if I'd only been honest with  
myself then, I could have been honest with you, and  
all this could have been avoided."

Assumpta touched his face with a merciful hand,  
absolving him as he had already done her. "You're  
here now."

The two caught up with Mary, and Peter gathered her  
and Assumpta in an embrace, kissing each of them  
tenderly on the head.

That evening, Peter looked after Mary while Assumpta  
worked behind the bar. He gave Mary her bath, read  
her a story and sang her to sleep in Assumpta's old  
rocking chair. Then for a long time he sat beside her  
bed, stroking the sleeping child's hair and weeping  
silently with joy at the intense and wonderful turn  
his life had taken in the past two days.

After closing, Peter shut Mary's door softly  
and stole away downstairs as quietly as possible,  
descending into the darkened bar. The lamp on the  
reception desk glowed softly as Assumpta leaned over  
an account book, her face even more delicate by the  
weak light of the single bulb. She heard Peter and  
stood up as he came to the foot of the stairs,  
philosophical expression on her face that Peter  
couldn't read.  
Before he could say anything, she spoke.

"I didn't take his name, you know."

Peter was not expecting this line of  
conversation. "What, Leo's?"

Assumpta's eyebrows raised briefly as she  
shook her head. "Nope. I stayed 'Assumpta  
Fitzgerald', even on the marriage certificate."

Slowly it was dawning on him, but he wanted to  
be sure. "Why?"

She fixed him with her eyes, her meaning clear  
now. "His wasn't the name I wanted to have."

For the first time, Peter realized that their  
one night together wasn't just a result of his passion  
for her. The feelings he had fled to England to avoid  
were evidently hers as well. It always came back to  
her, and all at once it hit him: she was the mother of  
his child; she had raised Mary alone, thinking that it  
would protect Peter's priestly career; and she loved  
him. Peter found his legs threatening not to hold him  
up any longer, but he managed to take the few steps  
over to where she was standing behind the desk.  
His emotions were so strong that his heart hurt from  
their force, yet he managed to whisper, "I love you,  
Assumpta," before taking her face in his hands. "In  
spite of everything, because of everything. I love  
you."

"I know." For the first time Peter could remember,  
Assumpta was crying unabashedly, tears splashing down  
her cheeks and onto his hands. "I know, and I love  
you too, Peter." He held her and she wept.  
Something unbidden suddenly yanked Assumpta back to  
reality. She gently broke away and backed up against  
the desk, not looking at Peter, wiping her tears away.  
"When do you go back to England?"

This time Peter had been honest with himself, so  
he could be to her as well. He took her chin in his  
hand and brought her eyes to his. "I'm not going back  
to England, Assumpta. You're here, our daughter's  
here…"

"But you're still a priest. What is to be done about  
that?"

"I don't know. I'll have to speak to my  
bishop. But it's done, Assumpta. As soon as I  
discovered you and I had a daughter together, my  
priesthood was effectively over. I want my life to be  
here with my family. Nothing is more important to me  
than that. I just hope you'll have me in it.  
Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just please don't run  
away from me again."

Assumpta was overjoyed. "Oh god, he's speaking in  
clichés now," she laughed, hugging Peter tightly for a  
moment before starting up the stairs. On the darkened  
landing, she stopped and turned, looking quizzical.  
"Are you not coming up?"

Peter equivocated, remained at the foot of the  
stairs. "I don't think I should. I'll spend the  
night at Brendan's, and be by here first thing in the  
morning."

Assumpta lowered her voice, sure now of what she  
wanted. "Come upstairs with me, Peter."

Outside her door, Assumpta took Peter's hand.  
"You're shivering."

"I know."

"Why?"

Peter was suddenly all schoolboy awkwardness.  
"Well, we've had…sex, but we've never…made love  
before."

Assumpta looked at him more earnestly than he'd  
ever seen. "Peter, if you really are uncomfortable  
with this, you can go. But I think you want to be  
here, just as I do."

Again Peter answered, but this time in a hoarse  
whisper against Assumpta's ear, "I know."

Standing next to the bed with its fluffy down  
comforter, Assumpta and Peter tentatively pulled each  
other into an embrace, lips touching briefly and then  
more urgently. His hand moved to the small of her  
back and pulled her closer. She ran her fingers  
through his hair, then started working on his shirt  
buttons. Peter tugged her T-shirt over her head,  
tossed it to the floor, and was kissing her neck,  
desperately wanting. For a brief moment Peter feared  
Assumpta would realize what was going on, who with,  
and push away, but she didn't. She just moaned  
softly and brought him down to the bed on top of her,  
then giggled nervously when they were at last  
completely disrobed.

Peter's index finger traced the line of her  
curves. "You're beautiful."

Assumpta, inexperienced, bashful, attempted to  
curl up but Peter wouldn't let her. "Now is no time  
for modesty," he teased gently. She laid back,  
shadows of the leaves from the tree outside her window  
playing against her bare skin like a feather fan.

"Are you ready to do this?" Peter asked quietly.  
He was sure of his feelings, but when her shining  
smile confirmed they were mutual, all apprehension  
vanished.

Peter yawned and stretched, tired and happy. "I  
wonder what the village will think?"

Assumpta chuckled, cuddling up to Peter. "The  
priest and the publican? That will keep the gossipers  
going for weeks. But our friends will be happy for  
us. It was Brendan who talked me into meeting with  
you. He convinced me that you wouldn't hate me. He  
thought there was hope that we might end up right  
here."

"What, in bed?" Peter snapped in mock disbelief.

Assumpta gave him a playful tickle and laughed.  
"I don't know if he'd got us that far, but Brendan did  
think you and I were destined to be together."

"Huh! Who's talking in clichés now?"

Assumpta whacked him with a pillow and continued.  
"Niamh came to me as soon as you two had spoken  
yesterday morning, to be sure I knew you were coming  
back to talk to me, that you hadn't run away again."

Peter rolled over, gently clearing Assumpta's tousled  
hair from her face.

"Sure I was going to come back, was she?"

"You know Niamh. She's sure about most things."  
Peter smiled, and was about to speak when Assumpta  
broke in. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sorry I stayed  
away. I should have rung, or written. It just seemed  
like the right thing to do at the time even though now  
it's obvious that I made a mistake---"

Peter placed his index finger over her mouth,  
shushing her. "Assumpta, I'm here now. I won't let  
you down." He kissed her again, sure that he could  
never do it enough to make up for the years they had  
missed but determined to try.


	4. Chapter 4

Storm

Epilogue

The bells of St. Joseph's pealed for early Mass.  
Peter and Assumpta lay dozing in the big bed in the  
apartment above the bar at Fitzgerald's. The bright  
morning sun streamed through the curtains, and Peter  
awoke. For a time he watched Assumpta, until she  
squinted her eyes open and caught him. She swatted at  
him lazily. "Don't look at my morning face, would  
you?"  
Peter leaned over and kissed her chastely, then fell  
back on his pillow and stretched luxuriously.  
"Let's have a lie-in this morning. Fitzgerald's  
doesn't open for another few hours, and I can go to  
vigil Mass tonight."  
Assumpta reached over, languidly tousling Peter's  
curly hair. "I suppose so. Landlady makes the  
rules, right?"  
Peter responded with mock petulance. "Who says  
you're in charge? I don't know why you won't let  
me put my name on the bar. After all, you took it!"  
"What, 'Clifford's'? Huh! It would cost a  
fortune to get the sign redone, and the electrics were  
just refurbished!"  
Peter nuzzled Assumpta's neck. "Now that  
you're letting me have the odd look at the accounts  
books, I have a fair idea of what we can afford."  
"You're one to talk about odd-looking!"  
Peter didn't take the bait this time, instead  
looking her in the eyes, saying seriously, "It was  
the best investment I ever made."  
"What, buying out Oonagh's share in  
Fitzgerald's with your inheritance from your mother?"  
"Yes, that," Peter agreed, gently tracing her  
face with his fingers, "but I was talking about my  
plane ticket from Manchester when Brendan invited me  
for that Bank Holiday weekend."  
"It was worth all the dirty looks from certain  
villagers, then?"  
"Well, we know who are friends are now, and  
you've gotten good at telling everyone else to go  
jump in the Angel."  
Assumpta chuckled softly and touched the tip of  
Peter's nose. "Someone once told me that priests  
were all theory and no practice."  
"Priests maybe, but husbands are a different  
story--and anyway, you should know! You and I had  
our L plates together, and we got a lot of practice in  
to become fully licensed at this man-and-wife  
stuff."  
Peter smiled mischievously, tickling Assumpta,  
kissing her neck as she squealed. She laughed out  
loud, taking a swing at him with her pillow, but Peter  
caught it mid-throw and easily tossed it to the floor.  
He and Assumpta continued to wrestle playfully until  
finally he had her pinned by the arms, and his  
expression changed. He leaned in, finding her mouth  
with his, beginning a slow-burning kiss that looked to  
be on its way to developing into something else when  
there was a knock on the door.  
Grudgingly they pulled away from each other, Peter  
propping himself up on his elbows and answering, in a  
half-exasperated sing-song voice, "Who is it?"  
A small voice answered, "Me, Daddy!" Peter  
groaned good-naturedly, his morning fun over for now.  
He and Assumpta shared one last look, then tapped  
their wedding rings together, a silent "I love  
you". "Come in then!"  
The three-year-old opened the door and launched  
herself the few feet to the bed, all curly red hair  
and billowing nightdress, welcomed by her parents with  
good morning hugs and pecks on the cheek. "You  
sleep well, darling?" Assumpta asked.  
"Yes, Mummy, but can I play with Aisling today?"

"Well, we'll first have to check with Niamh. She  
wanted us to go visit her family today. Okay?"  
A girl of about six appeared at the door then,  
lingering until she was noticed. Peter did first.  
"Come on Mary, you too," he motioned toward the  
bed, and she cheerfully climbed up with the rest.  
A moment of silence, then Peter shouted, "All  
change!" and there was a happy scrum as the four  
jumped around the bed. This game continued for  
several minutes until, exhausted, they took a break.  
As the girls nestled between their parents, the  
younger one asked with her still-developing grammar,  
"Daddy, tell us again the story of how you met  
Mummy."  
Peter and Assumpta smiled at each other over their  
girls' heads; they'd come so far from that day, so  
long ago.  
Peter wrapped the little girl up in his arms and  
began. "Well, Rosairie Clifford, I was walking in  
the pouring rain on the road into town when a small  
green van pulled up alongside me, and the beautiful  
woman who was driving it rolled down her window and  
asked, "Can I give you a lift? I'm going to Ballykissangel."


End file.
